A Star's Song
by LittleLotte17
Summary: A nice short One-shot summary of my F!Amell playthrough. Okay, it's not nice, it's actually super sad, but you should read it anyway. And I'm sorry this description  is awful. Alistair/Amell/Zevran


AN: So, I am pretty much stuck in both of the other long stories I am writing, and I was getting really frustrated, but then I remembered that I had started this one-shot about my F!Amell playthrough...and here it is. I have no idea if this is any good or not, but I spent a long time writing it, so I felt obligated to post it. I think playing a mage character in DA2 made me feel closer to my HM character, that and because of some weird glitch or something _neither_ of the people I romanced seemed to care much that the love of their lives was dead, and it kinda cheesed me off a bit. So, here, read some angst about it.

Rating: I am making this T rated, which I've never done, but it is pretty depressing so... don't yell at me, but let me know if I should up the rating? thanks

Disclaimer: blah blah blah, bioware owns all of these characters and most of my soul.

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><p>It was nighttime in the Korcari wilds and the Grey Warden recruits and their guardian had settled down for the night, deciding it was safer to bed down than risk being sucked into a murky death in the treacherous bog. The sky hung low with thick ominous clouds, making the night almost impenetrably dark. The Redcliffe Knight, Ser Jory, and Daveth, the cut-purse from Denerim, had both already gone to sleep; leaving the Junior Warden to stand watch with the newest of the recruits.<p>

Alistair shuddered at the familiar tingle of magic in the near vicinity. He rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the unease that nearly ten years in the Chantry had instilled in him at the sensation. He looked over at the woman sitting by the campfire; she was shooting sparks into the already crackling flame before her, looking bored.

"Could you…you know, _not_ do that?" he asked her, trying to hide the strain in his voice. She glanced at him with piercing grey eyes, before rolling them in annoyance and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like '_Templars_'. He sighed, _this_ was why he hated being around mages, one whiff of that Templar stink about him and there was an automatic wave of distrust and enmity. Not that he could really blame them, he supposed.

Illuin Amell; her name rolled around pleasantly in his mouth. He watched her quietly as she leaned back on her hands and stared up into the muddy blackness of the cloud-shrouded sky. Her skin was almost luminescent from the years of being hidden away from the world in the Mage's Tower, her dark brown hair came down to her chin, framing her oval face, and enhancing her silver-colored irises. She was pretty, in a quiet kind of way; not the type to dominate the room simply by walking into it, but rather, the girl who was appreciated on the double takes.

Especially after you had a conversation with her; her eyes weren't the only thing that was silver. Her thin-lipped grin and softly mocking mouth had won him over immediately. '_As a _**comrade**.' He told himself firmly, the last thing he needed was to develop a crush on the new girl, and a _mage_, no less. Especially before the joining…no point in counting chickens before they hatch.

"What was that?" She gasped, surging to her feet. He was beside her in an instant, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade as he tried in vain to perceive some threat lurking in the shadows of the swamp.

"I don't see anything." He told her, distrust seeping into his voice. She looked at him, something close to fear in her eyes.

"It wasn't something I saw…" She said nervously, wringing her hands together as her gaze flitted about like a startled animal. "I felt it. A pin prick of cold…There it was again! Do you sense any other mages?"

"No…" He replied as he stared at her, completely baffled at this abrupt outburst. This must be why she had left the circle, he reasoned, they had kicked her out for being utterly insane.

Just then, a drop of cool moisture landed on his cheek and it suddenly dawned on him what she must have felt. He looked up at the sky as the frequency of the drops increased, then back at her panicked face, and he couldn't help himself; he started laughing, _hard_. He bent over double, hands gripping his knees to brace himself, as he fought for air between his far too hardy chuckles. Now it was her turn to gape at him with an expression that clearly stated that she thought he'd completely gone off the deep end.

"Its _rain_, you barmy woman!" He declared as soon as he was capable of speech.

"Rain?" She repeated dumbly, glancing up at the sky in wide-eyed astonishment. He wanted to say something snarky, but the expression of wonder on her face gave him pause, and he suddenly found that he pitied her. He might have hated every minute that he had been trapped inside that chantry, but at least he had been allowed to play outside and even go to a festival or two; he couldn't fathom a life so sheltered that you couldn't recognize something as commonplace as rain.

Illuin placed a simple barrier around their fire to keep it dry and lit. Then they moved to the slight shelter of a large nearby tree and sat silently side by side, shivering together in the chill of the early autumn air. Alistair knew that most foreigners hated the gloom of Ferelden's continually wet weather, but he had always found it somewhat calming, the melodic hiss of rainfall the closest thing he'd ever had to a lullaby.

He snuck a glance at his companion and noted that she must feel the same way. Her sharp grey eyes were closed in quiet reverence, and she wore the most relaxed and unguarded expression he had seen on her to date. She let loose a deep breathy sigh that oozed contentment.

"I remember this sound." Illuin said softly, "It was fainter through the walls of the tower."

"Were you _never_ allowed outside?" He asked. She squirmed uncomfortably at the sympathy in his eyes.

"Apprentices are permitted to walk the grounds for one hour increments, when the weather is nice, which is rare enough in Ferelden, and even rarer out in the middle of Lake Calenhad." She informed him, her tone was flat and a bit resentful, but there was something flinty in her eyes that scorned his pity.

"Oh." Was all he could think to say.

"Before that though…" She said wistfully, "I remember the feel of warm dry earth between my toes and the heat of a summer sun. We were farmers, I think; poor as chantry-mice." She smiled faintly as she stared out at the swampland surrounding them, the nighttime landscape even hazier through the heavy rainfall.

"I recall," the mage continued, more to herself than Alistair now, "I used to love this….The smell of the damp soil and the sound of the water singing…just for me." She stood and walked to the edge of the shelter that the tree's branches provided, holding her hand out to feel the cool droplets run over her skin. The silverite pools of her eyes darkened as she watched them, hypnotized.

"But then there was…an _incident_." Illuin murmured and Alistair had to strain to catch her words. "Mother stopped smiling, her eyes became so sad, and Father… Father wouldn't carry me on his shoulders like he used to, wouldn't ruffle my hair or ask me to help with the animals…" She looked back at the Junior Warden, her expression like an open wound, raw and filled with a long forgotten hurt. "And then the Templars came."

Alistair burned with a need to say something, _anything_ to take that look off her face, to separate himself from the ones she held responsible for ruining her life. He held himself in check, however, knowing that anything he could think of to say right now would either piss her off or silence her sad musings, neither of which he was eager to do. Magic in general had always secretly intrigued him, and though mages tended to make him uneasy, he couldn't deny that this one in particular fascinated him.

The words tumbled from her mouth as surely as the droplets of water falling from the dark clouds above. She had no idea why she was telling him all this, a stranger _and_ a Templar, but she found she couldn't stop. He was such an earnest audience, and something about this place, so dark and damp and dangerous, seemed to have her in its thrall.

"It was raining that day too." Illuin whispered to the flickering firelight, but she could feel him watching her. A templar's piercing gaze, it was like being back at the Tower. "I was splashing around in the mud outside our house, trying to see if I could make Mother mad, I suppose. She was barely speaking to me by then, I think I was desperate for _any_ kind of attention at that point…" She sighed heavily.

"Were they mean to you? T-the Templars, I mean." He found himself stammering before he could stop himself. The Fade take his ever-chatting mouth!

"Hmmm, I remember thinking they were scary." She said evenly, not put off by his question in the least. "They were tall and fearsome, covered in plate from head to toe. The sound of the rain hitting their armor made it sound hollow; I thought they were some kind of demons."

"How old were you?" he asked softly.

"The Circle is bad at keeping track of such things," She informed him, "But I believe I must have been about five. Mother came out of the house and handed them a pack of supplies for me without a word. They told me to come with them…I didn't understand what was happening. I called for my mother, but she had shut the door, locking me out. They had to grab my arms and drag me off by force. I thought they were going to kill me. I screamed and cried…and nobody came."

"That's…_horrible_." Alistair finally managed to sputter. She shrugged.

"There isn't a mage in the Circle who couldn't tell you such a story." She stated, shifting uncomfortably and trying to fake nonchalance. "Because magic exists to serve man, and never rule over him, we are taught to fear each other and hate ourselves. What parent wants a child who is the embodiment of sin?"

"You think your very existence is a sin?" Alistair asked, completely baffled.

"No," She shot him a mirthless grin, "Well, not most days anyway." Silence fell heavily between them, and Alistair's mind scrambled to find the words to fill it.

"So, I imagine you don't like it much then?" He blurted out, cheeks warming at her curious glance, "T-the rain, I mean." Alistair could practically _taste_ the foot in his mouth as his new comrade continued to stare at him as if he had just grown a spare head. "I mean, it would make _me_ sad…i-if it reminded me of something like that…." She gave him a quiet smile and shook her head slowly.

"It doesn't make me sad." Illuin told him, backing out of the tree's protection to stand fully in the steady downpour.

"It doesn't?" The almost templar asked, brows knitting in confusion. She grinned at him as the water soaked through her garishly yellow mage robes.

"I told you," she began as she turned her face upwards towards the dark sky, palms raised, and silver eyes almost glowing through the haze of rainfall, "the rain sings for _me_."

And it _did_. The droplets of water swirled around her, dancing and curling about her form as they fell to the sodden earth. The firelight behind them cast an ethereal golden glow around her and sparkled through the falling rain. She conducted the water's movements like a symphony, with long graceful sweeps of her arms, and even with her dark hair plastered to her pale face and her robes heavy with mud, she retained a strange sort of poise- her own brand of magic.

But it was when she finally opened her eyes again to look back at him that his breath caught. Because she _smiled_, a real smile that crinkled the corners of those silver eyes and everything, _everything_ stopped. Just for an instant, all the darkness of the world and the uncertainty of their fates receded from the light of her triumphant joy, her radiance, her strength. Those few seconds of sudden hope, when she looked at him with her eyes burning, that was the moment he kept.

Not that he didn't remember the other times, all the ways she poked and teased and flirted with him, and how completely bewildered he was by the whole thing because _Maker's Breath_- there was a _girl_ flirting with _him_. Or the time when he inexplicably managed to turn the tables by giving her a rose, and suddenly _she_ was the one flustered and blushing, and he thought it must be some kind of trick, because it shouldn't be that easy. And then she had kissed him and he decided that it definitely _could_ be that easy. There was also the mortifying moment that he had to explain to her how he'd never _been with_ anyone before, and how she just smiled kindly at him and told him it was alright because she'd never been _in love _with anyone before. And nothing, _nothing_ could have been more perfect.

But there were other memories too, the ones he'd rather forget. Like the time she hadn't moved out of range fast enough and a dragon's fiery breath had caught her, almost turning her into a second Andraste. Some of the burns along her side had scarred and every time he saw them it reminded him of how very mortal she was. How precious. How easy to lose. And the times they fought, because all couples fight, and he accused her of seeing the Elf behind his back, even though he knew she wasn't, and flirting with everything that breathed, which she might have been, and she accused him of being a fanatical Chantry nut, and of course, a templar. '_Templar'_, the way she spat it at him, like it was the worst thing a person could ever possibly be, and how it managed to end every single argument they ever had, including the one after the landsmeet.

He is going to be king. And he hates it. A _lot_. And he blames her for putting him here, even though he knows she was just trying to do what is best, but part of him wishes she would have let him be selfish, just this once. Maybe that was why he'd ended it, because if he couldn't have her always, he shouldn't have her now. _'Just until the end of the Blight,'_ she had pleaded, but he is stone, a sad squishy stone, and he can't deny that it stung, the way she threw that last hiss of '_Templar_' in his face, as if it explained the reason he was breaking both of their hearts. And barely a week later, as they headed toward Redcliffe, they stopped to make camp and he saw her go into the assassin's tent. At first there was nothing except the pounding of his own heart screaming in his chest, but then those soft moans that she used to make for him slowly seeped into the night air. They pierced his defenses like a hail of arrows, and he scrambled into the safety of his tent, because King or no, he was not going to let any of them see him cry.

And then she had left him at the city gate. She _left_ him. Even after what Riordan told them at Redcliffe, or even worse, _because_ of what Riordan told them at Redcliffe. He wanted to yell at her, to shake her, or maybe even slap her, anything to get her to rethink this stupid plan. She was the mage, he was the warrior, if either of them should stay where it was safe, it should have been _her_. She was happy, he was _miserable_…if either of them were going to die…it should have been _him_. But she took that from him too. And the way she looked at him before she left, with those steely grey eyes all cold and distant and her mouth set in a strange tight grimace…. He knew she wouldn't let him say he loved her, even though he was practically burning with it. He hoped she saw it in his face, because he had never tried so hard in his entire life to beam a thought into another person's head. When she told them who she was taking to face the Arch-demon, there was part of him, a very _small _part, that was glad that the Antivan had been there to comfort her during those last few weeks, that there had been someone around who showed her she was loved when he no longer could. That didn't mean it didn't sting when he saw her take the elf's hand as they walked side by side into the burning city. On the contrary, Alistair had never felt like a bigger idiot in his life, watching her leave like that, knowing that _he_ was the one who should have been at her side.

He stayed at the gate, like a good boy, even though he couldn't really tell if his presence was rallying the men or not, because all he could hear was the thought '_Illuin, Illuin, Illuin_,' as it pounded in his head, mirroring the frantic pace of his heart. He barely registered the fleets of darkspawn he carved through or the enthusiastic whoops of his soldiers as they watched the man they will someday hail as their king, because his soul had walked into that burning city after a pair of alluringly swaying hips. Then came a dazzling tower of light, and for a few seconds it was as if all the sound in the world simply disappeared, and then the answering thunder rolled in, that earth-shattering explosion in the heart of the capital…and Alistair knew the woman he loves was at the center of it. All the air in his lungs seemed to have suddenly vanished. Surprisingly, out of all his comrades, it is the Qunari who spurs him into action.

"Go to her, Warden; while you still can." He did not shout, he never had to, the things the Qunari said are simply heard, and then generally obeyed. Alistair found himself running into the flaming ruins of Denerim before his mind had even fully processed what his ally had commanded.

As soon as he set foot onto that rooftop, he knew it was too late; she was already gone. Bodies and blood carpeted the area, but he spotted her almost instantly, her pale limbs sticking out at odd angles and her short blue robes bunched awkwardly around her thighs from being blown back by the force of a dying god. Wynne had collapsed close to her, a mix of exhaustion and raw grief leaving her powerless to stand. Shale stood a little farther off, impassive as ever. But it was the elf that truly caught the King's attention.

He simply stood there, weapons still in hand, covered head to toe in darkspawn blood and gore, his usually neat golden hair matted with filth, staring blankly down at her still form. There were no tears, no blubbering, he did not bawl about how she was the love of his life, or how he would never be whole without her. The blond Antivan simply stood there, unmoving, as if he had no notion of what he was supposed to do now. The rather noisy arrival of Alistair in his full plate armor soon shook him from his revelry however, and when the assassin flitted those tawny eyes at him the young Ferelden saw it written all over his face: complete devastation.

The fact that Zevran, who was never sad about _anything_, least of all death, was broken to the point of not being sure how to function suddenly seemed to make it real; Illuin was dead. His mage, his lover, his best friend was gone from this world forever. Alistair felt like he had just taken a hit to the chest by a Qunari with a thirty pound maul.

He stumbled to her side and knelt on the ground next to her. Her wide grey eyes stared back up at him, pale and dull and lifeless, her lips were parted slightly and a trickle of blood oozed out the side of her mouth. He merely meant to wipe the blood away, but he found himself holding her, cradling the broken remnants of her body gently, but firmly, pressing her to him as close as his breastplate would allow. He knew he was crying like a child, knew that he might well be ridiculed for this later, but honestly, he just couldn't bring himself to care.

It felt as if the sun had been extinguished, like Thedas had become just that much darker, that much colder, with the loss of this single person. What was the point of raising a sword, if she wasn't standing behind him, needing his protection? What reason could he possibly find to smile if it wasn't to mirror hers? What purpose was there to sight or sound when he could no longer see her face or hear her laughter? What good were words when he hadn't even been able to tell her what an idiot he was, when he couldn't beg for her forgiveness…when he had lost the chance to tell her that he loved her more than anything?

The sound of her mabari howling in despair heralded the arrival of the rest of their companions, but he did not move or relinquish his hold on her. A hand reached out to touch her face and he lashed out violently, snarling like some feral beast. Leliana blinked down at him, her big blue eyes wide in shock, and tears streaming down her face. He deflated from his aggressive posture, though he never relaxed his grip on the body in his arms, he suddenly felt so _drained_, so numb.

"I was just going to close her eyes, Alistair." The bard explained gently, she ran her hand lightly over Illuin's face, sliding the mage's eyelids over those silver irises for the last time. "There," She whispered softly, "now she could be sleeping." It was a lie, and a poor one at that, the crooked limbs and pooling blood erased any thoughts of peaceful rest when you looked at her, but the only Warden left in Ferelden managed to thank the redhead for it anyway, even though his voice was just as shattered as the rest of him.

The next to invade his privacy was the elf, who knelt down and wordlessly pressed his tan fingers against the smooth white skin of her cheek briefly before removing something from her left ear, a simple gold earring with a small sapphire that glimmered like the star she was named for. The Antivan slipped the jewelry into his own pointed ear before standing up and walking away without a single word or backwards glance.

One by one they left him, realizing that nothing they could do could wrench him from her side again. Far away he could hear the cheering throng of soldiers as the darkspawn fled the city. In his mind, he knew that what she did was brave and noble, that generations to come will praise her name to the sky, that she will become a legend, a hero, but the thought did little to quell the ache of his heart. There was nothing glorious about the weight in his arms. He had always considered himself a good man, kind and compassionate, if a bit bumbling, but what kind of man lets the woman he professes to love wander into the midst of a horde comprised entirely of ugliness and death, fully aware that it would destroy her? And that was if things went _well_.

So, he just sat there, talking to a corpse, and quite possibly going a little bit mad. He apologized for every single stupid thing he had ever done (that he could remember anyway), he told her how jealous he was about Zevran, he crooned about how proud he was of her for being pretty much the best Grey Warden _ever_, and he giggled about how much she'd tease him if she could see what a big baby he was being. He just kept babbling until the words ran dry; until all he could do was stare at her, lost. He remembered the way her nose wrinkled a bit when she laughed. And the way her hair smelled after sex. And he way her smooth nimble hands felt against his skin. He remembered the way she mumbled expletives that could make a lusty tavern wench blush when she was mad and how she hated to get up for watch duty. And the way her breath tasted right after she woke up. He remembered the way she had looked when she had walked up that ramp at Ostagar: pale and determined. He remembered how she had surprised him with her easy laughter. He remembered the way she had smiled amidst a thunderstorm, and how the darkness receded around her, and the way her silver eyes had burned into his soul.

He shivered from a coldness he hadn't noticed seeping into him, and the calming hiss of falling water reached him somewhere in the scorching desert of his grief. Alistair gazed up into the foreboding grey of the cloud covered sky. He remembered this too. He closed his eyes as the rain grew heavier; cradling the body of the woman he loved, smiling sadly as he listened to the sound of her music.

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><p>AN: Sooo, good? bad? write more one-shots? get off my lazy ass and get back to work on the stories you actually care about? never go near a keyboard with the plan to post anything online again?<p> 


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